


Succor

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Semi non con kiss, Stroking, Swearing, Touching, coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Sherlock and Molly try to navigate the ramifications of bad behavior and mutual attraction during events in The Lying Detective. Fits into canon. Lots of fluff, tropes, angst, comfort, humor, and romance, Sherlock style.





	1. Chapter 1

Molly hung up the phone and staggered over to the sofa to sit down. She was having trouble breathing. Little white spots danced in front of her eyes, making her feel dizzy. She drew a deep, shaky breath. Mary was dead. Shot at the aquarium. She glanced towards her bedroom where she’d put Rosie down not an hour before. _Oh, god,_ she thought. _Poor baby._

Greg had called to let her know, explaining what he knew, how Sherlock had goaded Vivian Norbury, despite Mary’s warnings, into shooting, and how shocked they all were when Mary had thrown herself into the path of the bullet, sacrificing herself for Sherlock. 

John had arrived just moments before Mary died. He’d tried to staunch the bleeding, but everyone watching had seen this kind of thing before, and they knew there was nothing that could be done to save her. All they could do was wait in horrible, anguished stillness while Death collected his due. John immediately lashed out at Sherlock. Greg feared John would have killed Sherlock right there with his bare hands if Mycroft hadn’t dragged his brother away.

John was still distraught, wild with anger and grief, and Sherlock wasn’t fairing much better, he told her. Greg was usually so calm when he was working, but Molly could hear the distress in his voice. They were all at the Yard, sorting things out. Mary’s body had been taken to Bart’s for autopsy.

“Would it be okay if Rosie stayed with you for a little while longer?” Greg asked. “I don’t know when we’ll be done here, and it would help John if he didn’t have to worry about her right now.”

“Of course, Greg,” Molly answered. “As long as he needs. Maybe someone could stop by with a key later and I can go pick up some of Rosie’s things from their flat.” It was strange to be talking so matter of factly about mundane things. Molly felt like she was talking from outside herself, like she was floating. They worked out a few details and then rung off. 

From the sofa where she sat, stunned, Molly could hear Rosie’s wakeful babbling from the bedroom and went to her. She picked up the golden haired child, hugged her tightly, sank down on the bed and started rocking her. She’d liked Mary, admired her even. She was so many things Molly wasn’t. Bold, adventurous, sharp, unafraid. Sherlock had adored her. _This is awful,_ she thought. _How are we going to get through this?_

The next few days were a blur. There was Rosie to look after, John to care for, endless piles of forms and phone calls and things for John to sign, as well as funeral arrangements to make. John had asked her to intervene in Mary’s autopsy, to make sure it was done correctly and with care. Of course she agreed. 

Molly kept busy waging her own little battle against the overwhelming tide of despair, trying to get John to eat a little, trying to mitigate his alcohol consumption, reminding him that Rosie needed him. It was a losing proposition; he was drowning in grief and whiskey. She still had to work, and to top it off, Harry had been hovering around, getting in the way, encouraging John’s unrestrained drinking, and pissing him off with her unhelpful comments. Molly had no time to check on Sherlock, who seemed to have disappeared.

The day of the funeral dawned, grey, with a soft rain. Sherlock didn’t come to the service, knowing, she supposed, he would not be welcome. She saw him afterwards, briefly, at the cemetery for the burial. No one but Molly noticed when he showed up late and lurked off to the side, tucked behind some gravestones. A tall gaunt figure, all sharp angles and silent grief, dressed entirely in black and fluttering grimly around the edges of their sadness like wounded bird. She longed to console him, to offer some words of kindness and understanding, but as the ritual handfuls of earth were dropped into Mary’s grave he slunk off. 

He showed up finally, unannounced, at John’s flat two days after the funeral, offering to help. John refused to answer the door. So, outside of the flat with Rosie in her arms, Molly gave Sherlock John’s note and ripped out his heart at the same time. 

Stoic to the last, Sherlock barely showed how devastated he was. He silently accepted the note along with John’s condemnation as if he deserved it. Molly knew how much she was hurting him, and it nearly broke her to have to relay such things. She tried to temper John’s hateful words as much as she could, repeating them to Sherlock as John had asked her, but if she’d taken a knife and stabbed him in the heart she couldn’t have been hurting him less. Molly felt terrible about it, and thought it unfair that she should have to take sides now.

Sherlock crawled back to Baker Street to comfort himself with the illegal substances that rendered him blissfully untethered, however temporarily, to this world and his pain. He couldn’t stand to be conscious, couldn’t bear to see anyone. Every nerve felt exposed and raw. He was looking for a case, any kind of distraction, but all he really wanted to do was use.

He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. He kept hearing John’s voice in his head. _You made a vow_. Mary was gone and it was all his fault. He’d ruined everything and let everyone down; he might as well be dead. _You made a vow_. He had another fix, and another, and another, but John’s voice wouldn’t stop throttling his brain, cutting off not his oxygen, but his will to live. If only he wasn’t such a coward he’d be able to fill the syringe to the top and end this misery forever. _You made a vow_.

But then Faith Smith appeared and suddenly he had a case. Fueled by increasingly scary amounts of hard drugs, Sherlock channeled all of his energy into exposing her father for the disgusting predator he was. A plan began to form in his mind. A brilliant, crazy, drugged-up plan. It was perfect, combining everything he loved in a case: an opportunity to catch a dangerous serial killer, meticulous planning, and most importantly, a chance to annihilate himself. Maybe he would make it to his own appointment in Samarra this time. Sometimes, laying on the floor in 221b in a hazy, drug-filled stupor, he wondered if Mary might be waiting for him there.

One week later Molly received a text from him, asking her to meet him in two weeks with an ambulance. He gave her the day, time and address. And requested she bring his coat.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly rang the doorbell to the unknown flat. A moment later, John opened the door. His unexpected presence rendered her incoherent.

“Um, hel…hello. Is...erm... I’m sorry, Sher…Sherlock asked me to come.” _What is John doing here?_

“What, two weeks ago?” He seemed more agitated than usual.

“Yeah, about two weeks.”

Sherlock came barreling around the corner into the foyer, dressing gown flying, interrupting their conversation. “If you’d like to know how I predict the future…”

“No, I don’t care how,” John snapped.

“Okay, a fully equipped ambulance,” Sherlock continued. “Molly can examine me on the way. Save time. Ready to go, Molly?”

“Um, well…”

“Just tell me when to cough,” he said, crudely, with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I hope you remembered my coat.” Sherlock swayed out the door and lurched towards the waiting ambulance.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, looking at John. “I didn’t know that you were going to be here. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.”

“Sherlock’s using again,” John informed her. 

“Oh, god. Are you sure?” 

“It’s Sherlock. Of course I’m not sure. Check him out.”

Mrs. Hudson came up and stood next to John. _What is she doing here?_ Molly felt so confused. Everyone seemed to know what was going on except her. Sherlock had asked her to come but now John was ordering her about.

Molly nodded, turned away from John and Mrs. Hudson (and whoever’s flat they were in), and started walking distractedly towards the ambulance. Her confusion deepened. John and Sherlock weren’t speaking. She’d seen it firsthand. _So what’s going on with the two of them together in a strange house?_ Everyone knew Sherlock wasn’t good with handling his own emotions, and his estrangement from John was making both men worse. Not that the two of them together was such a great idea either. _Adrenaline junkies, the both of them._

She was appalled to find out Sherlock was probably using again, although given the recent tragic events, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. He seemed manic. That meant cocaine. And god knows what else. He was at his most ornery when he was using. This was going to be…difficult.

 _Oh, god_ , she thought. _I wished I’d made more of an effort to stay in touch with him after I gave him John’s note_. Molly had sent him a couple of texts, but he hadn’t responded, which wasn’t unusual when he was embroiled in a case or experiments or just retreating from the world. _Maybe if I had checked on him more he might not have felt so alone. He might not have been driven to use_. She felt the familiar pang of guilt start to bubble in her stomach.

 _Hang on_ , she thought. _I’m not responsible for Sherlock. He’s an adult. Well, sometimes_. Her guilt began to morph into anger.

 _Am I supposed to caretake every man I know? I’ve been busy helping John and looking after Rosie_ , she fumed. _And working extra shifts. What has Sherlock been doing? Laying around Baker Street like a slob, apparently, doing drugs to escape from his problems_. 

Molly clenched her jaw and her fists, a mindless habit she’d picked up recently from John. Sherlock made her so mad. There was just something about him that made everyone he knew either love him to bits or want to strangle him. Sometimes both. At the same time.

Today it was the latter. _I’m going to kill him_ , she vowed. _Today’s the day. I have spent years…years! loving him, scolding him, putting my job and reputation on the line to help him, putting up with his hare-brained schemes, trying to drive some common sense into that brilliantly stupid head of his…_

_Why should he get to evade responsibility when everyone else is working so hard? Why the hell is he using again?_


	3. Chapter 3

By the time she reached the ambulance Molly was nearly shaking with fury. She climbed in and slammed the door shut so violently that Sherlock, lying on the gurney with his hands behind his head, flinched. The ambulance started to move.

 _He looks like holy hell_. Sherlock was pale, thin, and unshaven with greasy hair, wearing a rumpled, midnight blue dressing gown that matched his shirt. Dark purple veins pulsed at his temples and there were sickly shadows under his eyes that spoke of anguish, self recrimination, sleepless nights, and too many drugs. Track marks showed on the inside of his forearm where the sleeve of his dressing gown hung open. An odor of stale sweat and burnt cigarettes wafted around him. 

Molly strode up to him and without thinking, slapped him across his face with all her might.

Quick as a cat, Sherlock sat up on the edge of the gurney and grabbed her wrists, one in each large hand, stopping her as she was gearing up for another blow. He pulled her towards him, trapping her hips between his thighs and locking his ankles together behind her knees. With a feral growl and a wicked grin, he jerked her towards him by her wrists and crushed his mouth against hers, devouring her lips in a raw, devastating kiss. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and kept kissing her, slow and hard. 

Molly thought she might evaporate from the sheer heat of his kiss. Desire and revulsion pulsed through her body simultaneously, and she felt her knees give out. Unwillingly, she sagged against his chest. Sherlock chuckled in the back of his throat and deepened the kiss, teasing her, controlling her. She was only kept standing by the lock he had on her body, pressed tightly against his. She’d never been kissed like this before, with such hot, angry need and raw desire. The force of his passion startled her and his dominance was frightening, but his hunger excited her.

Molly moaned and pulled her head away, even as he kept hold of her wrists. “Wha…what are you doing, Sherlock?” she managed, trying to get her knees to hold her up. Her stomach churned into fluttery knots. She struggled against him, against his grip on her, and against her own desire, twisting her wrists in a vain attempt to escape, to gain some control over the situation. But he just laughed, his strong grip hurting her, his eyes wild. He lowered his head to the base of her throat, biting and licking her pulse point and working his way up her neck.

“I’ve no idea what’s going to happen later, Molly,” he panted in her ear, his voice ragged. “I may die today, and no one would argue it wouldn’t be for the best if I did. But I swear to god I have wanted to kiss you like that since the first time I insulted you.” 

Molly closed her eyes in pain. She couldn’t think straight. “Please stop, Sherlock,” she begged. 

“Why?” Sherlock sneered. “Don’t you want me, Molly? I thought you did. God, you taste good. You smell good, too.” He continued to ravish her throat with his lips and tongue.

Molly shook her head. “No, Sherlock. Not like this. This…isn’t you. This is some kind of awful... I can’t…I can’t...” she broke off. _Stop this!_ her mind screamed.

She gathered the shreds of her dignity and stood up straight, yanking her body away from his. She looked him in the eye as fiercely as she could. “Let go of me, Sherlock,” she commanded. He instantly unlocked his legs and released her left hand, but took her right arm in both hands and, with a growl, licked a stripe from her elbow to her wrist, ending by roughly raking his teeth across the tender inside of her pale wrist where it was rubbed red from the pressure of his fingers. He tossed her arm back at her.

Her lips hurt; they were tender and swollen from the force of his mouth grinding against hers. She took a deep breath to stabilize her shattered nerves. “You bastard!” she hissed. “Don’t do that again! Say you’re sorry!”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. “I’m never going to apologize for that. If today is my last day on earth, I want to die with the taste of you in my mouth. God, Molly, I…” his eyes raked over her lustfully and he reached out for her but she backed up, away from his iron arms, his haunted, glittery eyes and his brutal, plush lips.

Molly felt her knees give way again, and she grabbed the wall of the ambulance to steady herself. “What do you mean, you may die today?” She swallowed and shook herself, trying to gather her thoughts together.

“I’m tangling with a serial killer,” he said. His voice, deeper than usual, sent shivers through her. “And I am so fucked up I can barely see straight.” He shook his head. “Only John Watson stands between me and death and he’d rather see me dead.” He laughed again, grimly, bitterly. “I seem to be upsetting everyone today.”

Molly shakily turned around, still distracted and unsettled from his cruel kiss, and started looking for a stethoscope. She forced herself to be calm. “Is there anything I can do to talk you out of this madness?”

“No,” he replied, bluntly.

She felt fear and despair twisting in her stomach and her heart sank. He was chasing death with a determination she’d never seen before. _This is a nightmare_ , she thought. _I don’t know what to do. I can’t handle him like this_. 

“Take that robe off and unbutton your shirt then,” she said curtly, trying to bluff her way through her nervousness. “I told John I’d examine you. See if you’re fit to be walking the streets.”

“I can answer that,” he said, opening his shirt and pushing up his sleeve. “I’m not. That’s part of the plan.”

“What have you been taking?” she demanded, slapping the cold stethoscope to his bare chest.

Sherlock winced. “Can’t you warm that thing up?”

“No. Answer me.”

He sighed. “Speedballs. With the occasional benzo. Or two.”

“Or three or four. Jesus, Sherlock.” Molly shook her head, roughly shoved his sleeve up, wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm and started pumping. “Any Fentanyl?”

“Maybe a little. A tiny, tiny bit. Ow!” He yelped as the overinflated cuff cut into his arm.

“Dammit, Sherlock! Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“You forget I’m a chemist. And Wiggins has been helping.”

“Hindering,” she corrected.

“I know what I’m doing,” he sulked.

“Yes, it certainly appears you’re in the peak of health,” she muttered sarcastically. “How long has this been going on?”

“Well, since uni...” he began, and then trailed off. Molly glared at him and Sherlock realized the joke didn’t seem funny, even to him. “A couple of weeks.”

“So, in non-liar land, that means at least a month, right?” Chagrined, he nodded. “I am officially really angry with you right now, Sherlock.” She released the pressure from the cuff, removed the stethoscope from her ears and started taking his pulse. She was worried. The more she saw the more she realized what terrible shape he was in.

“I hadn’t guessed,” he grumbled. “Maybe I should have consulted with you, or someone else, maybe, before I started this case, but—“

“Case?” Molly screeched. The notion that he would do this for one of his stupid cases finally sank in. “You’re doing this for a case? Goddamn it, Sherlock. This is insane! Your blood pressure is through the roof and you’re exhibiting tachycardia. That right there could give you a heart attack or stroke. For some reason you’ve got fluid in your lungs, not to mention severe dehydration and probable kidney failure. If you don’t drop over dead or John doesn’t kill you by the end of the day I’ll do it myself,” she snapped.

“Aw, c’mon, Molly,” he said quietly. “You’re not helping my pulse rate.” He tried to cover her hand on his wrist with his own.

“Don’t you start with that,” Molly warned, lightly smacking his hand away. “You’re not going to charm your way out of this. Isn’t it bad enough Mary’s dead? Are you trying to join her?”

Sherlock hung his head. “I know you’re angry,” he said. “But if you would just listen for a moment. John wants…verification. I need your support, Molly. I’m just…a bit of a mess right now.”

Molly checked his pupil response and examined the nasty track marks on his arms for signs of infection and collapsed veins. _Oh god, his beautiful arms. Such a waste_.

She could feel hot tears begin to prickle behind her eyelids and she drew a deep breath, forcing them back. _I will not cry_ , she vowed. _Not today_. “Sherlock, I don’t understand why you are hurting yourself. Why do you need to do this?”

“Already told you,” he said, rubbing the scruff on his face. “It’s for a case.”

“That’s always your reason! But it’s…it’s not an explanation. I think you just want an excuse to use. It’s selfish, Sherlock. I can’t do this. I can’t…” her voice trailed off and she growled, frustrated and dismayed. Suddenly, she felt like couldn’t catch her breath. She clutched her midsection, trying to suck some air into her lungs.

“Molly, please,” he began, his desperation rising. He realized his time with her was running out. “I can’t go into the whole thing. I haven’t the time and it’s too complicated. But I have a plan. To be honest, I can’t quite remember all of it, but that’s not important right now.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me, no matter what I want,” he said, dryly.

“You’re avoiding dealing with Mary’s death. You’re trying to assuage your guilt with drugs.” She shook her head. “It’s not going to work, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here to lecture me,” he said, stubbornly. “I needed…I wanted…you to understand.”

“Why did you want me to see you like this? Why? Why do you torture me? Do you take pleasure in hurting me? You know how I…feel about you.” Her breath hitched. “This is unforgivably vicious. Even for you.”

He hung his head and wouldn’t look her in the eye. “I am selfish, Molly,” he whispered. “I…I need you. But I couldn’t take you away from John, not when he needs you more.” He fell silent and Molly crossed her arms, waiting for him to continue.

He drew a deep breath. “I…I wanted to see you before I die,” he blurted out. “That’s it. That’s the explanation.” Then he laid back down on the gurney and threw his arm over his eyes. Conversation over.

Molly found herself speechless. Surely he wasn’t serious? Everything was happening too fast, she couldn’t keep up. She wanted to shake some sense into him, but she knew it would be futile. There was no stopping him when he got like this. You could either go along for the ride or bail. She pulled down the jump seat and sat, her mind whirling.


	4. Chapter 4

The ambulance pulled into the parking lot of Culverton’s studio and stopped. So did Molly’s hope. Frustration and rage boiled out of her, so she opened the door and sat on the tailgate, trying not to cry. A few minutes later, a sleek black limo pulled up and John got out.

“Well, how is he?” John asked.

“Basically fine,” interjected Sherlock before Molly could respond, rolling off the gurney and trading his dressing gown for his Belstaff.

“I’ve seen healthier people on the slab,” Molly spat.

“Yeah, but to be fair, you work with murder victims.” Sherlock said, glibly. “They tend to be quite young.”

“Not funny.”

“A little bit funny.”

“If you keep taking what you’re taking at the rate you’re taking it, you’ve got weeks.” Molly closed her eyes and turned her head away. She was so upset and angry she could barely talk.

“Exactly! Weeks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sherlock said, stumbling out of the ambulance. He looked as if he might fall over at any moment.

Molly jumped to her feet. “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, it’s not a game!” she yelled.

“I’m worried about you, Molly,” Sherlock said, unperturbed. “You seem very stressed.”

“I’m stressed. You’re dying,” she shot back.

“Yeah, well, I’m ahead then. Stress can ruin every day of your life. Dying can only ruin one.”

“So this is real,” John said. “You’ve really lost it. You’re actually out of control.”

“When have I ever been that?”

“Since the day I met you.”

“Oh, clever boy,” Sherlock muttered, snidely. “Missed you fumbling around the place.”

John tried again. “I thought this was some kind of…”

“What?”

“Trick.”

“Of course it’s not a trick,” Sherlock said. “It’s a plan.”

“Mr. Holmes!” Culverton Smith called from the entrance to the studio.

Sherlock leaned in close to John and lowered his voice. “Thirty feet and closing, the most significant undetected serial killer in British criminal history. Help me bring him down.”

“What plan?” John asked.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t like it.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Culverton arrived, flanked by a crowd of sycophants and publicity people. “I don’t do handshakes. It’ll have to be a hug.”

“I know.” Sherlock looked as if he’d rather hug a rabid badger, but he allowed Culverton to embrace him.

“Oh, Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock! What can I say? Thanks to you we’re everywhere.” Culverton was all smiles and slimy, confident bravado.

A publicity goon interrupted. “Mr. Holmes, how did Culverton talk you into this?”

“Well, he’s a detective,” Culverton joked. “Maybe I just confessed.” He clapped Sherlock on the back as the crowd of people dutifully laughed, and began to lead him and John into the studio. 

Sherlock turned and locked eyes with Molly one last time. His eyes were piercing, and she felt stricken, finally seeing a glimmer of the desperation and regret he had been trying to express in the ambulance. Was that an apology? An entreaty for her to understand? Was he really going off to die? With a sense of failure sweeping over her, she realized she’d been too angry and unsettled; she hadn’t paid enough attention.

Molly stood there, stunned, and watched him leave. She couldn’t begin to unravel everything he was telling her with that look. There were years of mixed-up, unresolved feelings between them. A moment later the ambulance driver appeared at her side, interrupting her tangled thoughts. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, gently. “That sounded…rather rough. None of my business, I know, but if I thought he was going to hurt you I would have stepped in.”

“Erm…yes. I’ll be okay.” She could feel herself shaking and wondered if she would ever be okay again.

“Do you want to ride in the front, Dr. Hooper?”

“What?” She was having problems concentrating. Her thoughts were a blur.

“Up front with me?”

“Um, yeah, Richard,” she said. “That would be nice. Can you take me home? I’m feeling a bit…wobbly.”


	5. Chapter 5

Molly unlocked her door and dropped all her stuff. Kicking off her shoes, she staggered down the hallway to her bedroom, put her phone on the nightstand, and collapsed on her bed. It was only early afternoon but she had never been so tired. She pulled a pillow into her arms, buried her face in its softness, and tried to let her exhaustion melt away. She felt bone weary.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock. She’d never been this worried about him before, not even when he was hunting Moriarty’s network in Eastern Europe. His medical condition was serious, but what concerned her more was his complete lack of regard for his own well being. It was like he didn’t care anymore. Molly felt hot tears begin to fill her eyes. _Dammit, I said I wouldn’t cry over him but I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. I hate it when he’s like this. He doesn’t seem to realize it’s not just himself who gets hurt_.

Toby wandered into the room, jumped on the bed, head butted Molly in greeting, and then settled down next to her to have a bath. Molly ran her hand through his warm, comforting fur, and her thoughts turned to that fiery kiss. _If I hadn’t been so startled, and if he hadn’t been so brutal it might have been enjoyable_. She touched her lips. They were still a bit sore. _I wish I knew what that was about. He was out of his mind on drugs, that much was clear. Maybe it was a reaction to them. Maybe I was just a convenient pair of lips for a passing, drug-fueled moment of lust_.

There was no denying that Sherlock had grown softer to her over the years, but he’d grown softer to everyone. Well, until today. _So, it couldn’t be that I’m special to him_ , she reasoned. _It must have been the drugs, then_. The thought made her sad. She couldn’t even hang on to her anger over his behavior today. Yes, it had been unconscionable. Yes, he had abused her, kissing her that forcibly. But she had to admit part of it excited her as well. 

She closed her eyes, remembering the feeling of his lips, crushed against hers, his tongue in her mouth, teasing her, tasting her. The firmness of his chest, pressed against her breasts, her nipples hardening as they rubbed against him. She tried to linger on the pleasure of it and forget about the anger between them, but her mind kept worrying over what to do. She hugged her pillow tighter.

Drifting in thought, her mind wandered back to when she was a child and their dog was dying. She’d talked to her dad, telling him she felt helpless, she didn’t know what to do, how to help him or ease his pain. _All you can do is love him_ , he’d said. _Care for him as well as you can. Make him comfortable. He’ll go in his own way. Each creature has its own journey, Molly. If you could fix him, then he’d have no journey of his own, and that would be selfish. Just love him_.

In the years since then, Molly had lived that advice to the best of her ability. She practiced it when her dad died, on each of her pets as they lived and passed, during the autopsies she performed on the hapless victims on her slab, and currently, she was attempting to practice it on Sherlock Holmes. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe love cured all ills, but she did believe in its power to heal and transform. 

It was difficult, though, not to wish that he might someday return her affection. To love him, purely, cleanly, without expectation or need of reciprocity was asking a lot. It was more than not wanting to get her hopes up. It was about sanctifying and honoring her own heart. Her friends often teased her about the futility of carrying a flame for the arrogant detective, but she couldn’t help what her heart felt. 

Molly had come to the conclusion many times over the years that it was okay if he didn’t feel that way about her. She knew she couldn’t make him love her, and she wasn’t silly enough to try. Each time and for a little while after, a few months, maybe, she would go about her life, half-heartedly dating obviously inferior men, trying to move on. Sometimes she was even able to convince herself that she was over him. But then she would see him and her heart would fill up again. He just made all other men seem like dim, inconsequential shadows.

 _There are worse things than being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Losing a child. Being lonely. At least I’m not on fire right now. This is pathetic, Hooper_. Molly felt the tears spill down her cheeks. She curled into her pillow, hugging it tightly, as if it could ever replace her need for him. Her tears eventually subsided, and as they did she fell asleep. 

She woke up hours later. It was dark and she was disorientated. Her phone was ringing; it was John Watson. Reluctantly, her heart in her throat, her stomach in knots, she answered the phone. 

“Yes, John?”

“Molly, it’s about Sherlock.”

Her stomach tightened even further and she bit her hand. “Oh, god.” _No no no no no no no…_

He must have heard the terror in her voice because he was quick to assure her. “No, no, he’s okay. Well, he’ll be okay. He’s not in the greatest shape right this exact minute.”

“Wha-what happened? Did he overdose?”

“Not really. Maybe. I guess.”

“John! Please…please...tell me what’s happened!” Molly began to rock back and forth on the bed. She felt as if she might burst.

“Long story. I don’t even know how to begin. He’s still at St. Caedwalla’s. We spent all afternoon chasing Smith around. Finally cornered him in the morgue. Sherlock had a…well…a breakdown of some kind. He was completely out of control. I’ve never seen him like that before. You know how he is, he can be an insufferable git, but…it was due to the drugs, I think, and I…I…,” his voice trailed off.

“Yes? I’m here, John.”

“I…got angry at him. I hit him. More than once, I’m afraid. God, Molly! I…had to stop him. It was…bad.”

“You...beat up Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I did. I didn’t mean to, but I guess I snapped. He was screaming and...I think he was hallucinating…waving a scalpel around. He was going to hurt somebody. I’ve never been so angry, Molly.” John took a deep breath. This was hard for him, she could tell. She tried to be patient but her mind was roaring. 

“Once I hit him I didn’t stop,” he continued. “I just kept on, even when he was down and not a danger anymore. He didn’t even fight back. He just…let me. I hurt him pretty badly. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop…”

“So that’s why he’s in the hospital, because you had to…stop him?”

“Partly. I cracked some of his ribs. He’s pretty bruised up. I mean, it wasn’t all me. There were the drugs, too. They need to get them out of his system. They want to keep him for a while. He’s not well, Molly.”

“Yes, I know. His condition in the ambulance scared me. But he’s okay now? He’ll live?”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll live.” There was a silence. 

“John?”

“There’s more.”

“Okay. Go on.” Molly took a deep breath.

“Smith tried to kill him.”

“Jesus,” she breathed.

“Sherlock was right about him being a serial killer. Luckily, he’d told the nurse when he was still conscious and she helped him by switching the drip.”

“What’s her name? I’ll want to talk to her.”

“Umm….Cornish. Nurse Cornish. Gail, I think. Nice lady. She loves my blog. Anyway, then Mary told me he needed help so I borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s Aston Martin…god, what a great car…went down there and managed to break in just as Smith was trying to suffocate him.”

“Mary? Mary…told you? Aston Martin?” Molly was completely confused. That seemed to be a regular occurrence today.

“I told you it was complicated,” John said, lightly. “Anyway, he was calling your name earlier. He’s pretty much out of his mind, and he’s probably asleep now, but I wanted to let you know he’s okay.”

“He was calling for me?”

“Yeah. He thinks real highly of you, you know. Don’t worry, Molly. He’ll be okay. They ended up sedating him, and they’re going to keep him for a few days. He’s got a nasty detox coming. I feel sorry for the nurses once he wakes up. He’ll be hell to deal with. Listen, Molly, I gotta go. Rosie’s crying. Talk to you later, okay?”

“O-okay. John?”

“Yeah?”

“It must have been awful for you. I’m sure you did the best you could in the circumstances.”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I appreciate the thought,” he said and hung up.

Molly jumped off the bed and rushed to gather her things. She had to get to the hospital immediately, to see him with her own eyes. It’s not that she didn’t believe John, she just had to make sure he was okay, still breathing, still living. She flew out the door and flagged down a cab.


	6. Chapter 6

—Four days later—

Molly took a deep breath, steeling herself, and opened her door. “Gentlemen,” she said mildly.

The two Holmes brothers stood on her doorstep, each looking a little awkward. Mycroft was dressed impeccably as usual and stiffly carried his ubiquitous umbrella and Sherlock’s overnight bag. Sherlock looked only slightly better than he had since the last time she saw him. Dark scruff still covered his face, he was thin, which made his cheekbones seem even sharper, and an aura of exhaustion surrounded him. There were a few stitches on the inside of his brow, and he was sporting a shiner with a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Molly’s heart flipped over. She wished he would stop taking such risks with his health. With his life. And with her heart.

“Good evening, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft responded with a nod. He gave Sherlock a shove in the back, propelling him over the threshold and into the flat. 

Sherlock stumbled into the room and seemed ill at ease. But when Molly came over to him and rubbed his upper arm through his coat, he softened. “Hello, Molly,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek. She smiled gently at him and tucked her arm through his. 

“My brother would thank you for your kindness in taking him in, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft continued, “but he’s too busy sulking at the moment.”

“I don’t see why any of this is necessary,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!”

“All recent evidence to the contrary,” Mycroft said. “Didn’t I just pick you up from hospital?”

Molly sighed. “Please,” she said, waving them in. “Make yourself at home. Kettle’s just boiled, I’ll have tea ready in a minute.”

Mycroft raised his nose slightly and curled a lip. “My brother will take tea,” he said, sweeping into the flat in his grandiose manner. “I need a martini. Very dry.”

“I want a martini, too,” Sherlock said, shrugging out of his Belstaff and tossing it over the back of a chair. “Why do I have to have tea?” Molly glared at him, and he, misreading her, took his coat and hung it up properly on the rack inside her door, along with his suit jacket.

“Children have tea,” Mycroft said. “While adults have alcohol. Besides, you hate martinis.”

“Yeah, I do hate martinis. How about some whiskey?” Sherlock suggested, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. “I could have whiskey.”

“May I remind you, brother mine, that you have been out of hospital for…” Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “…27 minutes? I think, normally, that persons who have spent four days in hospital for nearly killing themselves with a myriad of illegal chemicals are not allowed to start imbibing so quickly upon release. Something about…sobriety?” He gave one of his lean, ghastly smiles.

“Wine, then, Molly,” Sherlock countered. “And it wasn’t just the drugs, Mycroft. Culverton suffocated me, I hurt myself trying to fight him off, and also there was that bit because John…well, that other thing.” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he didn’t want to talk about how his best friend had beaten and kicked him within an inch of his life.

“This is not a pub,” Molly said firmly. “Everyone is having tea. There is no alcohol in this flat right now. Paracetamol is the only kind of drug you’ll be receiving here, Sherlock. Everyone is making healthful sacrifices. You,” indicating Sherlock, “because you’re turning over a new leaf before you break everyone’s heart, and you,” indicating Mycroft, “because it’s rude to drink in front of your brother when he’s trying to abstain. I myself am giving up wine for the duration until Sherlock gets well. Now, the both of you, sit down.” 

At her command, both brothers immediately sat on the sofa close together, and then slid apart when they remembered that they detested each other. Mycroft perched on the edge of the cushions, balancing his hands on top of his umbrella whilst Sherlock settled back, picked up a pillow and clutched it to his stomach. They both heaved a sigh. 

Molly came in with tea things on a tray. With a shy smile, she slid a plate of hot, buttered jam cakes over to Mycroft and started pouring the tea.

“Thank you, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft said, helping himself. “These look delicious. And might I express my own gratitude for assisting with the recovery of my recalcitrant brother. Baker Street is not quite habitable yet. Amazing, isn’t it, what a month of debauched living can do to the furnishings? We’ve practically had to dip the entire flat in bleach.” 

“The doctors wanted to keep him a few more days,” he continued conversationally, as he delicately inhaled another tea cake. “But the nurses were ready to kick him to the kerb two days ago. He really is a beast.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and muttered something under his breath. Mycroft ignored him and pressed on. “I refuse to burden the rapidly aging Mrs. Hudson with the care and feeding of this idiot until he is more…shall we say, grateful…towards those who lo…must endure his willful temperament. But we shan’t impose him on you for more than a day or two. That will give me enough time to finish at Baker Street.”

Toby wandered into the room. He meowed loudly to announce his arrival and immediately singled out Mycroft as the only object in the room who would not enjoy his attention. He trotted over and slowly wound himself around Mycroft’s legs, wiping a pleasing scattering of cat hair on his expensive suit. Mycroft sighed in fastidious disappointment and tried to inconspicuously push Toby away with his shoe. Toby jumped into his lap; Mycroft froze in horror. Molly hid a smile and Sherlock, watching this little non-verbal battle, chuckled.

“Is this arrangement okay with you, Sherlock?” Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock met her gaze with equanimity. “Of course, Molly,” he answered. “Despite my brother’s overly dramatic verbal tendencies, I do appreciate this. You’re very kind.” He swiped a tea cake off his brother’s plate and munched it down. “But I could always check in at The Goring if I’m going to be in your way,” he finished, licking a bit of butter off his fingers.

Mycroft snorted and gently pushed Toby to the floor. “What you deserve is a spanking and to be sent to bed without your supper, not to wallow in luxury at a five star hotel.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Molly mumbled to herself, a spark of humor in her eye. There was an awkward pause and Mycroft quickly took a gulp of his tea. “Oh, god!” she blurted out, putting her hand to her lips. “Erm…did I just say that out loud?” She blushed. Sherlock grinned.

“Hmmm. This tea is…very…um, yes, well,” Mycroft said thinly, staring dubiously into his cup. He drank the rest of it, tried not to shudder, and put the cup and saucer down on the table. “I won’t keep you,” he continued, rising from the sofa. “You have my number, Dr. Hooper, so if he gives you any trouble at all, please do call. Be a good boy, Sherlock. Don’t give Dr. Hooper any reason to call me, will you, brother dear?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, brother mine.”

Sherlock gave him a parting wave. “Mycroft?” he said as his brother headed for the door. Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks but didn’t turn around. “Thank you.”

Mycroft swallowed, turned, and adopted a long suffering air. “Don’t make a habit of this sort of behavior, Sherlock. If you want to see me, you can just phone me. There’s no need to indulge in all this excessive drama.” Sherlock smiled wanly.

Molly got up and walked Mycroft to the door. “You really do care for him, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice was quiet. “I’m beginning to suspect you aren’t as…prickly as you like to appear.” She offered her hand.

Mycroft took her small hand in his dry one and shook it gently. He gazed at her for a few moments, sizing her up. “No,” Mycroft said. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I really am. I learned many years ago that caring is a disadvantage. Being a Holmes has its…complexities regarding interactions with…well, goldfish. I have been trying to teach that to him,” he jerked his head towards Sherlock, sitting on the sofa rubbing his brows. To Mycroft’s concerned eye, his brother looked heartbreakingly young. “But he’s hopeless. He will always care. Too much.” His eyes glazed over for a few moments as he stood there, still holding her hand, lost in thought. A very human expression slid over his usually stolid features. 

“There you are,” Molly said softly, peering up at him, her words breaking into his thoughts. “That didn’t hurt too much, did it?” She smiled kindly.

“Agonizing,” Mycroft assured her, his smile belying the word. “You know, I think you might have a lot more spine than I had previously assumed, Dr. Hooper. Enough, I hope, to manage my intractable beast of a brother?”

“Oh, he can’t be managed,” she said, almost offhandedly. “Didn’t you know that? He’s sort of like a rock we poor, caring waves crash upon. We’re smashed to pieces against him, aren’t we?” she said with a gentle, knowing glance. “Over and over. That’s the nature of this particular beast.” She shrugged lightly, calmly acquiescing to the power of immovable objects. She smiled up at him. “I’ve found it’s best not to fight nature, isn’t it?”

Mycroft blinked. Molly thought he looked a bit like Sherlock when confronted with his own, unwanted, sensibilities. “Rather astute of you, Dr. Hooper,” he said, smoothly. “What can we do, then? After we’re…smashed to bits?”

“We coalesce and have another go. Waves always do. The sea never falters or stops, does it, Mycroft? It only changes form. Never intention. I can call you that, yes? And you should call me Molly. I think we’ve come far enough for that.”

“Thank you...Molly,” he answered hesitantly, as if such familiarities made him too vulnerable. “Now I’m positive he’s in good hands. Please do let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.” He gave her a meaningful look, made a small bow, and took his leave.

Molly looked thoughtful as she closed the door and returned to sit close to Sherlock on the sofa. She tucked a leg up so she could half face him. 

“What’s a goldfish?” 

“That’s the term my brother uses to describe people. Normal people. He thinks he’s so far above everyone but he really isn’t.”

“That sounds rather lonely.”

He raised his eyebrows before slowly nodding. “Yes. He is. But you’ll never get him to admit that.”

“Much like yourself. You like to believe you’re in a class by yourself and no one else could possibly understand you.” He hung his head. She had an uncanny ability to cut through to his innermost heart. “Oh, Sherlock,” she continued. “What am I going to do with you?”

Shrugging, he picked up her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles, and then he turned her hand over and gently kissed the tender inside of her wrist, the spot he’d abused just a few days ago. He held her hand near his lips for a long time, nuzzling her fingertips, then lowered her hand to his chest, and briefly closed his eyes.

“Do anything you want. I deserve whatever you choose to dish out. I treated you abysmally in the ambulance.” There was a long pause whilst Sherlock played with Molly’s fingers, his head down. Finally he released her hand, rubbed his face and looked her in the eye. “I’m so sorry, Molly. Really, truly, horribly sorry. You deserve much better.”

“Yes, I do.” Her calm acknowledgment of her own worth further sparked his regret.

“I...I don’t know why I did that. Have I completely destroyed any…regard you once had for me?”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Her tone was even and soft.

“No,” he answered, a bit defensively. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Molly. All I know is that I’m no good at this.” He waved his hand between them. 

“Well,” Molly said lightly. “It’s a beginning.” 

“I wish I could be the man you think I am. I wish I could be the man I think I am.” He smiled ruefully.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “Don’t you know you already are?”

Sherlock looked at her, startled. She seemed…different. Less hesitant. Stronger. Something had changed in her and between them; the power dynamic had shifted. He no longer had the upper hand. He wondered if he ever really did. The thought unsettled him.

“Why didn’t you come see me when I was in hospital?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t come because I had driven you away. Forever.” He looked so sad that Molly longed to throw her arms around him and hold him close, but she restrained herself. It wouldn’t help right now to distract him from what he had to face.

“I needed time to think, Sherlock. And so did you.” _If you only knew. Nothing can change the way I feel about you. Not all the drugs or serial killers in the world. Not even you_.

“I’ve had too much time to think,” Sherlock said, in a rare admission. A silence fell between them. He shifted uncomfortably. “It should have been me,” he said, so quietly she could barely hear him. “That was my bullet.” He groaned, buried his head in his hands and began to rock back and forth. “I wish John had killed me, Molly. I can’t stand this pain.” He wrapped his arms around his stomach and started to tremble. He looked around distractedly, like he was searching for something.

Molly pulled a pillow onto her lap. “Put your head down, Sherlock.” He toed off his shoes, settled his head into her lap and drew his knees up, curling into her warmth, trying to find some kind of peace in her nearness. She covered him with the knitted throw from the back of the sofa and ran her fingers slowly, soothingly, through his dark curls. She stroked his brow. He shivered.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said. “I got through the worst of the detox in hospital, but now I feel hot and cold at the same time. I can’t stop shaking.”

“This is shock, Sherlock. You’ve been running from this for weeks,” she answered. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Just let yourself shake. Your body needs to let go of all that adrenaline.”

“God, I need a fix,” he said.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing you need. Hush now.” She began to hum quietly, a soothing, simple melody, and rubbed his back gently. “There’s nothing to escape from. Just be. Try to relax.” She grabbed the remote and tuned into her favorite early blues music station. Something soft. Billie Holiday singing “Crazy.” _Perfect_.

Sherlock rumbled softly and wrapped his hands around her knee, holding her tightly, needing contact with her. He concentrated on breathing and tried to relax. Gradually, with her calming presence and the music soothing his agitation, his quivering subsided. Molly closed her eyes for a few minutes. She was exhausted but they still had a long way to go. _All in good time_. Right now, all she wanted to do was rejoice in the feeling of him, safe and warm, resting in her lap, her hand in his soft curls, and listen to the sound of his breathing. _We’ll get through this, she promised herself_.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly stirred, and Sherlock tightened his grip on her leg. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled sleepily.

“I’m not, Sherlock,” she responded, getting up. “I’m just going to heat up some curry. I’d like you to eat a little bit, okay?” He nodded.

She went into the kitchen and began microwaving some leftover takeaway. She set the table, took a jar of chutney out of the fridge and poured two large glasses of water. She also set some pills by his plate, just as he wandered into the kitchen. He was wearing a dark crimson-colored dressing gown he’d obviously dug out of his overnight bag. Molly thought it made his eyes look green.

“What are those?”

“Vitamins. I want you to take them.” He snorted in disdain, but picked them up and swallowed them anyway. “And drink that water.” He obeyed, settling into his chair while she arranged their plates and put them on the table. “Now, be a good boy and eat your din-din,” she chided playfully.

“Molly, I’m pretty sure you know I’m not a child.” He picked up his fork and began to dig in.

“No, but you act like one sometimes.”

“I’ll give you that,” he agreed. “Drives Mycroft crazy. This is good.” He took another large forkful.

She smiled in agreement. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“How did you know Culverton was a serial killer?”

“I met his daughter. Well, I thought I met his daughter. That part isn’t very clear to me.” He frowned, thinking.

“I saw her picture once on the cover of a magazine. She’s very pretty.”

“Mmm? Yes, I guess she is.”

Molly felt a spark of jealousy flare in her stomach. “What do you mean, you thought you met her?”

“I…um...was pretty high at the time,” he explained, looking embarrassed. “But I thought she came to see me because she needed help. She suspected her father of…killing someone, or wanting to. We talked. She was suicidal. No...maybe that was me. I dunno. She reminded me of the first time I met John. I…uh, it’s kind of a blur. We walked all over London. For hours. It was nice; I liked her. I’m pretty sure she liked me. Anyway, I just followed the thought and came up with Anyone. And there he was.” 

He stopped as she got very quiet and seemed to fold into herself. He looked at her sharply. “Molly, you know you’re not just…anyone to me, don’t you?”

She glanced across the table at him, and bit her lip in that way he found so endearing. She nodded, a little hesitantly and looked sad. “I know, Sherlock. I know you…care about me, in the way that you can. You rely on me to help you, you come to me when you…need me. I’m not jealous. Really.” Her insides twisted uncomfortably. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was jealous of this unknown woman who had commandeered his attention and esteem. She knew she was not thinking clearly but she couldn’t help it. Not when it came to him.

He huffed. “You have no need to be. She wasn’t real. No one can take your place, Molly. Especially not an imaginary woman.”

She preened a little, perking up, and they finished their meal in silence. They washed the dishes together and then wandered out to the lounge. Ella and Louis were singing “Isn’t it a Lovely Day.” He turned to her with a gentle smile.

“Dance with me, Molly,” he said, holding out his hand.

Shyly, she moved toward him and slipped her hand into his. She slid her other hand up his firm chest onto his shoulder. He put his arm around her, gently pulled her close, and they began to slowly sway to the music. Molly could feel herself relax into his arms. _This must be what heaven feels like. It’s sublime_. She thought she felt his lips lightly brush against her temple, sending a twist of delight through her. She put her cheek on his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled her hand over his heart, curling his long fingers around her small hand, and rested his head on hers. His hand drifted down to her lower back, urging her even closer. They moved together, lost in the moment, as if there was nothing in the world except for them. Dancing between waves of time, no past, no future, just the soft music and the press of their bodies against each other, drifting in a blissful eternity. She could feel his body tremble.

He shivered. Molly could see his pulse beating too fast at the base of his throat. His neck was damp. He had broken out into a sweat. Suddenly, he stumbled and stopped dancing.

“I…I…um,” He pushed the heel of his hand into his eye and groaned.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

He shook his head, trying to clear it, still shivering. “I’m fine. But maybe I need to sit down for a minute. I’m cold.”

“You’re not fine. You’re overdoing,” she said. “What you need is a hot bath. C’mon.” She took his hand and tugged him down the hallway to the loo. She turned on the taps to the ancient claw footed tub and began to add bubble bath and lavender salts to the water. “I’m making it very hot, Sherlock. It will help you to relax.” Whilst the tub filled she lit some vanilla scented candles and turned off the overhead light, casting the small room in a warm, golden glow.

Shaking with a chill, Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown and hung it up next to her robe, on the hook on the back of the door. He swayed and braced his hip against the edge of the vanity, trying not to fall over. His cracked ribs were aching. He started to unbutton his shirt but his hands were shaking so much he wasn’t making any progress.

Molly came over him and undid the buttons and cuffs. She slid the shirt off his shoulders and took a deep breath when she saw the bruises on his side. She touched them gently with trembling fingers. “Oh, Sherlock. Do they hurt?” 

He shook his head. “Not much,” he lied, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. He felt like he was floating in a dream.

Molly loosened the fastening on his trousers and pushed them and his pants down. He stepped out of them and, using her shoulder as a brace, peeled off his socks. “In you go,” she said, turning off the taps. He stepped into the bath and let out a moan of pleasure as his long limbs sank into the deliciously hot water. He was enveloped by the soothing scent of lavender and mounds of delightfully tickly bubbles.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” he asked, with a wink and a saucily raised eyebrow.

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” she responded, more than a little reluctantly. He looked disappointed; that made her happy. She sat down next to the tub on a small, three legged stool. “Sit up. I’m going to wash your hair.” She poured some shampoo into her hands and lathered his curls, and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy her touch. Her hands in his hair felt wonderful. His head fell forward. Whilst her hands were still slippery with soap, she firmly massaged his neck, back and shoulders, feeling his tight muscles begin to relax. He grunted with pleasure. 

“God, Molly,” he breathed. “Your hands…”

She hummed as she worked, rinsing off the shampoo and slathering conditioner into his hair. Playfully, she crafted a Mohawk out of his wet curls and giggled, admiring her handiwork.

“I know what you’re doing,” he rumbled, with mock grumpiness.

“Shut up, Sherlock. Let me have my fun.”

The sounds of “Splish, Splash,” by Bobby Darrin drifted down the hall. They both laughed. She rinsed his hair again.

Sherlock sighed blissfully and leaned back, stretching out, closing his eyes and resting his head on the edge of the tub. Molly soaped up a sponge and slowly began to wash his chest, arms, and stomach, being extra gentle over his track marks and bruises. She wanted to take her time and savour this. God knows if she would ever have another chance to appreciate his body so intimately again. She worked her way down his legs next, paid special attention to his feet and toes, and then began to slide the soapy sponge up the inside of his legs.

Sherlock was lost in sweet sensation, enjoying the feel of her strong, capable fingers caressing his body, gliding slickly over his skin, washing away his tension. He felt a coil of desire begin to tighten in his groin. By the time her sponge reached the apex of his thighs, he was half hard. 

“Oh,” Molly whispered, seeing him bathed in golden light from the candles. His beautiful body was spread out next to her in the fading bubbles, completely relaxed and displaying his growing need. She reached out to touch him, slowly running the side of her finger up the underside of his cock, exploring, teasing him to further arousal.

Sherlock moaned at her touch, opening his thighs a bit to give her better access. With this encouragement, she wrapped her delicate hand around him and began to stroke, rubbing her thumb over the tip and moving back down his shaft in a gentle, easy rhythm. His breath shortened and he arched his back, pushing himself into her hand. 

His eyes were closed, his head thrown back over the edge of the tub, exposing the pale column of his lovely throat. His long fingers gripped the edge of the tub and low, needful moans slipped out of him. Molly had never seen anything as gorgeous as this man in the throes of his ecstasy. The deep, rumbling sound of his voice sent shivers of desire through her. 

She increased her speed and pressure, working him to completion, wanting to bring him pleasure and with it, a respite from the ordeal of his recent days. She slid her free hand over to his where it rested on the edge of the tub, and he immediately threaded his fingers through hers, squeezing hard. His stomach muscles tightened and his hips bucked against her hand as he neared his release. With a sharp groan, he climaxed, spilling himself into her hand and the bath water.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was flushed and shining with joy. “Oh, Molly,” he breathed, cupping her cheek in his large hand. “Thank you.” He leaned forward and, instead of kissing her cheek like he usually did, pressed his warm lips to the corner of her mouth, lingering a little bit. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. I’m pretty sure you wanted me to, too,” she said with a knowing smile, covering his hand on her cheek with her own. “How do you feel?”

“Like a limp noodle,” he admitted, with a little shake of his head. “If I can get out of this tub, I’m just going to slither down the hall and crash on the sofa.”

“Like hell you will,” she said. “You’re sleeping in my bed.”

“I can’t leave you the sofa,” he protested.

“You’re not. I’m sleeping in my bed, too. Don’t worry, Sherlock. What’s left of your virtue is safe with me,” she teased. “Let’s just consider this a…medical procedure. I’ll get your pajamas.” She pulled the plug, letting the water out, and went to get his overnight bag.

By the time she got back Sherlock was out of the tub. He’d wrapped a towel around his waist and was drying his hair. 

“Here,” she said, putting his bag down. “I’m…just going to close the house up.” He started digging out his pajamas.

She went to shut off the music, lock the doors, put away the dishes, feed Toby and turn off the lights. She went into the loo, brushed her hair, leaving it down, and cleaned her teeth. Peeking into her bedroom, she saw Sherlock was already in bed and asleep. The lights were off. She tiptoed in and pulled a silky nightgown out of her lingerie drawer. Throwing another glance at Sherlock, she slipped out of her clothes and shed her undergarments. Just as she was pulling the nightgown over her head, she looked at him again. His eyes glittered in the dark; he was watching her.

“Oh!” she said, startled. “I…I thought you were asleep.”

“You are beautiful, Molly,” he whispered. He held the covers up and slid over. “Come to bed.” She didn’t need to be told twice. Scurrying across the room, she slipped in beside him. He snaked his hand around her waist and pulled her close, spooning her from behind and making a little grunt of contentment. He was asleep within seconds, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Molly hugged his arm closer, shut her eyes, and soon followed him into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

“Molly? Molly! Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” Sherlock gently shook Molly’s shoulder. She was thrashing and moaning in her sleep. She turned over and her elbow caught him in the ribs. Sherlock hissed in pain and tried to catch his breath. “C’mon, Molly darling, wake up.” He jostled her again and she opened her eyes, staring into his face, uncomprehending.

“Sher…what’s going on?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “Did you…just call me darling?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

Molly sat up, remembering her dream. She dropped her head into her hands and began to shudder. “Oh, it was awful, Sherlock!”

He sat up next to her and began to rub her back soothingly. “Do you...want to tell me about it?”

“Yeah…we were in this place, there were lots of columns and it was in the earth, you know, and it was dark, and everyone was there, but everything was kind of covered with this bubbly, purple liquid. And you were in pieces. Literally, in pieces. And I was crawling around in the dark, trying to find all the bits of you…because I thought I could stitch you back together, but you were just like these oozy chunks, and it was...and…you were sticking to me and everything was just slipping out of my hands and I couldn’t…” 

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Sherlock, watching her, froze. “Then everything was grey and thick, and I…There was no way to do it…and everyone was counting on me but it was so horrible and you were just sliding around and flowing all over and I couldn’t catch you…I couldn’t…” With another shudder, Molly hugged her knees.

“Well,” Sherlock said. “I don’t think we need to exhume Jung for an analysis of that dream. But I’m okay, Molly. Look, I’m right here, no…ooze. All in one piece, see?” He patted his chest. When she didn’t react he put his arm around her shoulders. She stiffened. 

Sherlock withdrew his arm and there followed a small, awkward silence. “But that’s not all there was to the dream, is it, Molly?” he asked, softly.

“No,” she answered in a small voice.

“Would you…do you want to tell me about that part?”

Molly tossed her hair to the side as she turned her head to look at him. “Why did you kiss me like that? Why?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember much of what happened that day, Molly. I remember you looked so…attractive…when you came into the ambulance, and I was pretty hopped up. Sometimes the drugs do…certain things to the libido…All I remember is that I wanted you, erm...to…taste you. Kiss you.”

“Are you really using the old ‘you’re hot when you’re mad and I couldn’t help myself’ line?”

“Is it working?” he asked, with a tentative smile.

“Not yet,” she said, with a flash of anger. “Keep trying.”

“It was wr…wrong. I was…wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“What is it with men who think women are just objects to be had? You made me feel unsafe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was stricken. That was one of the worst things he’d ever heard her say. He prided himself on his chivalry, and now he was having to admit to the very thing he’d chastised and beaten other men for. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize…I didn’t think.” He hung his head. “Was it…that bad?”

“Yes! Well…no. Some. Mostly. I don’t know! How do expect me to answer that?”

“What part was bad?”

“You were…brutal. You…hurt my wrists.”

Sherlock moved closer to her, carefully lifted her forearms and brought her wrists to his lips. He bent his head and gently kissed each one. He looked up at her from beneath his brows, his sad eyes filled with contrition. 

Molly drew a breath, shaken by the intensity of his eyes. “And…my pride. You hurt my pride.”

Sherlock pressed kisses in the palms of her hands. “For that, dear Molly, I sincerely ask your forgiveness. Mycroft was right. I am a beast. I will try to do better.”

She smiled. “And my lips. You hurt my lips.”

He cocked his head at her and frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Are you sorry or not?” she asked, sharply.

“Of course!” He looked affronted.

“If you’re going to kiss me, at least do it properly this time. I need something for…comparative purposes.” She turned towards him, raised her chin, closed her eyes and wet her lips with her little pink tongue.

She looked so desirable that he immediately kissed her. He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping her face in his hands, and gently pressed his mouth to hers. He ran his tongue along her lips. She parted for him, and he slipped in to explore the taste of her. Warming to his task, Sherlock deepened the kiss, bending her back until she felt herself being lowered expertly onto the bed. His body covered her, his thigh slotted between hers, pressing against her in all the right places. His lips never left her mouth, their tongues dancing together, their breath mingling. It was soft and needful, with just a hint of deep want and urgency; it was fabulous. 

Molly could barely breathe and didn’t care. As he continued to kiss her, she moaned. She clutched his hair, arching into him, pushing her centre against his thigh, wrapping her leg over his hip.

Sherlock broke the kiss, turned his head away and groaned. Then he reluctantly pulled himself up, panting. “Was…was that better?”

Molly made an unintelligible sound of pleasure. 

He looked at her, stretched out languidly on the bed next to him in her silky nightgown, her hair mussed and fanned out beneath her, her lips red and a little swollen, her eyes shining. She looked warm and tender and thoroughly satisfied. _God, she’s beautiful_ , he realized for the second time in just a few hours. _I want her_. With that thought, he panicked. 

__

Sherlock bolted off the bed and practically ran into the lounge. _What the fuck is going on? What am I doing?_ He clutched his side. He couldn’t breathe or think, and his ribs hurt. He went into the kitchen, dug around in the freezer and found a bag of frozen peas. Going over to the sofa, he hurled himself onto the cushions. _Ow! Shit!_ He positioned the cooling bag of peas on his aching side and crossed his arms over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bedroom light flick on. _God, Molly, please don’t come out here…please don’t…_

__

Molly crept out and stood in the entrance to the lounge, silhouetted by the light behind her. It made her nightgown nearly transparent. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his eyes to the floor. She came over and sat on the end of the sofa by his feet.

__

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly. “I…um...was teasing you and I got carried away. I didn’t mean to let it get so…much. I shouldn’t have asked you…to…kiss me.” Sherlock didn’t answer. He just laid there, stiffly, his hands in tight fists. After a few minutes of silence, Molly got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with some paracetamol and a glass of water. She put them on the table for him and headed back to the bedroom.

__

“Molly?” She stopped. “I told you I was no good at this…sort of thing. I’m not…I can’t be what you want me to be. And I don’t deserve you.”

__

“Isn’t that for me to decide?”

__

“I’ll only hurt you again. Put you in danger, get you in trouble, make you angry. I’m…no good at normal…goldfish...things. I’ll always be an arrogant arsehole. It’s my nature. You…you can’t change that…you can’t fix me, you know.”

__

“I’m not trying to, Sherlock,” she said, sadly. “Anyway, you’re not broken. You’re just afraid.” Molly went back to bed, leaving him to stew in his thoughts.

__


	9. Chapter 9

At some point during the night he came back to bed. He didn’t touch her, but stretched out along the edge of the bed. When Molly woke up around 10 am, he was lying on his side, sleeping deeply, the blanket twisted around his legs.

She got out of bed and went into the kitchen to start the coffee. Sitting at the table, she dropped her head into her hands and sighed. _Maybe it would be best if I left London. I could get a job in Manchester or Bristol. He doesn’t want me, and we keep getting into these…whatever this thing is. Pushing and pulling against each other. It’s hopeless. This isn’t love and it’s not hate, either. It’s two people who can’t…settle together_.

The coffee maker gurgled and hissed to a stop, so she poured herself a cup and checked her phone. There were a couple texts from work with questions about some samples she’d left. She responded and then getting up, went into the loo to draw a bath. _I’m going to soak until noon_ , she promised herself, adding extra bubble bath to the water.

About fifteen minutes later, Sherlock woke up to the delicious smell of coffee, threw on his dressing gown, and wandered barefoot into the kitchen. He could hear Molly splashing around in the bath. He poured himself a cup of coffee, added two sugars, and then a third, and sat down at the table. Her phone was laying there. He picked it up and began to snoop. 

Five minutes later, he barged into the bathroom without knocking.

“Sher…wha…what are you doing? I’m having a bath,” Molly complained, sinking down into the bubbles, trying to cover herself. Her long hair was piled carelessly on top of her head, a few loose, damp tendrils clinging to her neck, and her skin was tinted a lovely rosy hue from the hot water and steam.

“Nothing I haven’t seen already, Molly,” he said, crisply. He took off his dressing gown, hung it on the hook on the back of the door, and pulled off his pajama top. “How’s the water?”

“Fine. It’s getting a little cold. I’m just about to get out.”

“Add more hot,” he ordered. She muttered something not very nice, but reached over and opened the tap while he shucked off his pajama bottoms, leaving them on the floor. “Scooch up, Molly. I’m getting in behind you.”

“Get your own damn bath,” she grumbled. This one is mine.”

“I want this one,” he insisted.

With an aggravated sigh, Molly scooched, and Sherlock stepped into the tub, stretching his long legs around her and settling her bum against his hips. He grabbed a sponge and began to lather it up.

“What I am about to tell you, Molly, must never leave this room,” he said, seriously. “Lean forward a bit.” She leaned, and he started washing her back in big, soapy circles. Concentrating on his task and the delightful way the sponge glided across her skin, he forgot what he was saying for a minute. “I wonder if there’s a better methodology to bathing,” he mused.

“Time or technique?”

“Both, I imagine. Are you trying to scald us? Turn off the tap!”

“Well,” she offered, leaning forward and shutting it off. “For the time component, I refer you to ‘Cheaper by the Dozen,’ the original movie, with Clifton Webb. He was an efficiency expert and figured out a way to bathe in 30 seconds. Or was it two minutes? Anyway, as to technique, I think you need to just continue your current experimentation. You may be onto something there.” 

She twisted her head from side to side, trying to stretch out her neck, and heaved a sigh, starting to relax. “Although I suppose there’s an argument that time and technique are correlated. There must be a space-time-bath continuum or something.” She arched her back into a stretch. “That feels good, Sherlock.”

He moved on to slowly lathering her arms and upper back, applying soothing, relaxing pressure to her shoulders and neck. “Maybe efficiency is over-rated. Maybe technique is the…most…important…thing,” he said, getting lost in the texture of her skin. He ran his soapy fingers along her neck, distracted by the loveliness of her nape.

“Mmmm,” she murmured in agreement. “But what were you going to tell me that’s so super secret?”

“Oh! Okay. I’m only going to say this once, Molly, so pay very close attention.” He stopped his administrations momentarily. “I…am an idiot.”

Molly burst out laughing. “That’s not news, Sherlock.”

“Isn’t it?” He seemed hurt.

“Of course not. Everyone knows that,” she said, barely able to contain her giggles. “But what happened this morning to cause this revelation?”

“Everyone? Are you sure?”

“This morning?” she countered.

“Right. I looked at your phone.”

“What?”

“You left a series of text messages between you and Nurse Cornish on your phone.”

“Oh, shit.” Molly winced. _I should have deleted those_.

“Leaving aside for a moment the fact that you two shared some…intimate knowledge regarding my anatomy and prowess in the, shall we say, lingual arts, the rest of the exchange was not entirely shameful. It proved illuminating in regard to my…analysis of my own behavior this past month, as well as providing assurances of your…affection for me.”

“Oops,” she squeaked, embarrassed.

“I disregarded Nurse Cornish’s…droolings for the obsessive ravings of a fan. She loves my blog.”

“John’s blog,” Molly corrected.

“Whatever. It’s about me, after all.”

“I see you’re feeling better about you this morning,” she said, dryly.

“She is an excellent nurse, a very kind person and definitely helped save my life. Lean back, Molly,” he instructed. “I’m going to wash your…frontal zone.” 

She leaned back against his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. “Frontal zone?” she snarked. “What kind of nomenclature is tha….ohhh…” her voice trailed off as he applied the sponge to her breasts, slowly stroking and rubbing them. He chased the sponge with his fingers, caressing her nipples, feeling them harden and pebble beneath his hands. She closed her eyes as she arched back against his chest, thoroughly enjoying the sensations he invoked in her.

“You lied to me, Molly Hooper.” His voice was deep, rumbling in her ear. His hands began to wander leisurely over her body. The sponge floated away, forgotten.

Her eyes flew open. “Wha…when?”

“You said you didn’t come see me when I was in hospital.”

“I said no such thing,” she replied, hotly. “I didn’t say anything. You assumed I didn’t.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie.”

“I’d like to see you prove that in a court of law.”

“My, aren’t we getting all legal today?” he retorted. “You deliberately withheld information from me.” He lightly brushed his hands along her hips and thighs, slowly, sensually. 

“Okay, Sherlock. You got me. I…didn’t tell you that I rushed to see you in hospital the second I found out what happened. And that I checked on you with Nurse Cornish fourteen more times over the next three days. You would have known I was there if you hadn’t been unconscious because of your overdose, you big...dumb…man.” The feel of his hands roaming her body was making it difficult for her to speak.

“Eighteen times.”

“Really? Eighteen? I…thought it was less.”

“Oh, Molly,” he breathed, enfolding her in his arms. “What am I going to do with you? It’s obvious you would just crumple up into a pathetic little ball of needy protoplasm if I wasn’t around for you to…adore.” He cupped the base of her head with his hand.

“Really, Sherlock, you are the most aggravating, ego driven…mmmfff!” Sherlock used the leverage he’d just created to turn her face towards him. He kissed her, urgently, passionately. His other hand wandered lower, down her stomach, and stopped briefly to play with the curls above her soft centre. Moving further down, he ran his long fingers along her opening, locating the tiny bundle of nerves that sparked her pleasure and began to rub it, teasing her.

Molly panted into his mouth and automatically spread her thighs apart. The tiny flicker of desire burning in her core burst into a raging fire. She moaned. “Have…have you gotten over your…de…debilitating fear, then?” she breathed, rolling her hips against his hand.

“What fear?” he asked, pushing a finger into her.

“Erm…the…your…ohhh…god…”

“You were saying?” he chuckled, inserting another finger and moving them inside her. She writhed beneath his maddeningly clever fingers as he stroked her into passionate delirium. She gripped his thighs and began to push against him, seeking more friction, more contact. With his other hand, he played with her nipples, pinching and twisting them lightly, and then moved his lips to the crook of her neck, gently kissing and biting her tender skin. Her head was thrown back against his shoulder; she was bereft of rational thought. 

Little mewling sounds escaped from her as the tight coil of desire in her centre began to quiver and expand. She grabbed his wrist, straining against him, urging him to increase the pressure. Sherlock obliged, captivated by her beautiful face awash with bliss. Moments later she gasped as her climax overtook her, breathing out his name whilst her body shook with pleasure. 

As her breathing returned to normal, she stretched against him like a cat. “You’re just trying to soften me up, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Is it working?”

“Yes, she said, blushing.

“Seriously, Molly, we have to talk about a few things. Why don’t I tell you what I want, and then you tell me what you want? Let’s see how much…adjustment needs to be made.” 

She nodded, her heart in her mouth. She never dreamed about having this conversation with this man. “Go,” she said.

“I think we have to keep this, us, on the down low for a while. I can’t have you becoming a target because of who I am. I won’t give up my work or my flat. I need you to be okay with the risks I take. I’ll probably forget your birthday and leave you waiting in restaurants and stuff because I’m off chasing a lead. I will never call you my girlfriend, even in private. I’m going to be terrible at the…romance..piece of this.” He shuddered at the thought.

“Is that it?” 

“For now. You?”

“Um,” she hesitated, thinking. “I won’t give up my work or flat either. You can’t expect tons of special favours at Bart’s because of…us. I may not be okay with the risks you take, and I will yell at you occasionally for them. Especially a stunt like you pulled this week.” She took a deep breath to fuel her rising diatribe. “Really, Sherlock, you can be so irresponsible sometimes! If you knew how mad you make me…”

“I think you’ve strayed a little from the original purpose of this conversation,” he interjected with an amused smile.

“Right. We need to have a more comprehensive talk about your drug use. You know I don’t like it and it’s not okay. I don’t care about birthdays, although if you leave me hanging in one too many restaurants you’re going to hear about it. I won’t try to change you, I wouldn’t know how, but I reserve the right to speak my mind if I think you’re being a bastard. I will worry about you. You need to help me with that. I want you to try to be a tiny bit romantic when we’re alone, even if you’re crap at it. Just like you, I require assurances of affection occasionally.”

“I don’t require assurances of affection!” he protested. She merely cocked an eyebrow at him. “Okay, you’re right. I do. Is that it?”

“No. I want you to make love to me, constantly,” she said, shyly. Then she laughed. “And I want you to make me pass out from too many orgasms.”

“Is there such a thing as too many? You may regret this one, Molly. At least, I’d like to try to make you regret it,” he said, with a wicked grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. “Alright, let me summarize, then,” he continued. “You reserve the right to yell at me…”

“Speak my own thoughts.”

“…speak your own thoughts, and I get to fuck you silly, provided I stop acting like an arse. Does that about cover it?”

“Nicely put,” she muttered, sarcastically. “A bit crude, but I think it encompasses the highlights.”

“One more thing,” he said. “You are never allowed to sell this bathtub. Deal?”

“Deal.” They shook hands. 

“Let’s get out of it, though,” he said. “The water’s freezing.”


End file.
